Like Endless Rain Into a Paper Cup

All Because I Fell In Love With A Rug

It all started so innocently when on Sunday, I asked K if we could run to Bed Bath and Beyond to get some new towels.  The other day I detected a slight funk from my big white fluffy shower towels and let's just say, I don't do funk.  They will be soaked in bleach, washed on HOT, and then staked outside in the sun for 30 days.  Or something like that.  In the meantime, I thought we could probably use an extra set of white towels.  And I had a 10 off 30 coupon from BB&B that needed to be spent. 

We headed out to the store, all four of us.  Max was suffering from an unfortunate case of low blood sugar and my fun little trip turned into a frenzy.  Max was whining uncontrollably about wanting to buy a pumice stone, Clara was screaming just for the hell of it, and K was pulling out his hair.  So I grabbed some white towels... but wait!  Look at that cute bath rug!  It's my favorite color mix: blue, brown, and cream!  I need it.  But which bathroom should I put it in?  Definitely the main floor bath.  (I pause here to scream at my children in front of complete strangers to ZIP IT!  I FOUND A CUTE RUG!)

But at this point I have a bigger problem, other than wanting to sell my children.  You see, everything in the bathroom is the wrong color.  I quickly figure that I will need new towels.  Oh, and a new toilet seat cover.  Cool!  I step over Max, who is writhing on the floor at this point, and grab a cream colored toilet seat cover, and some blue striped hand towels.  Oh, and I even got a FANCY towel with decorative little branches on it.  I've never had a FANCY towel before!  I told K that he's never allowed to put his hands on it because it's for looks.  Kind of like my body.

We leave BB&B, and head directly to the first place we see to eat.  It's Chipotle which excited K until I remind him that they won't be serving jalapenos because of the salmonella and stuff.  Which is all for the good because the man loves jalapenos as much as he loves complaining about the BURNING GUT, MY GOD THE BURNING GUT 3 hours later.  The kids devour their quesadillas and calm ensues.  I decide at this point, mainly because I'm starting to get that special OCD feeling about redecorating the bathroom, that we need to stop at Target on the way home.  The plan is to keep the kids strapped into the car where they can't bother society and have just me run in and pick up a few things.  Because of course now that we have new towels and rugs, we need new hardware!

I run into Target and start gathering stuff up.  New towel ring?  Check.  New towel bar?  Check.  New toilet paper holder?  Check.  And all of this is in a lovely brushed copper finish.  As I was turning to head to the checkout, I heard a blood-curdling scream.  There is only one creature on earth that can make such a horrid noise, and unfortunately it is my daughter.  K has let them loose.  Sorry Target.

Clara comes running down the main aisle chasing after a ball that is about twice the size of her.  She's screaming because Max had kicked it away from her.  K is dragging Max by an earlobe and Max is yelling bloody murder.  I duck and hide in the Tupperware section.  I look over at this lady who is obviously appalled at those children and I give her the pursed lip and shoulder shrug obviously agreeing with her disapproval.  I said to her "hey, at least they're reminding us all to take our birth control." 

On the way to the checkout I pick up a very lovely on-sale mahogany shelf to go in my bathroom.  I was on a shopping high!

Once home, I beg K to put up the new hardware.  He starts, but before he finishes, I realized something very important.  The paint color is ALL WRONG.  And that needs to be fixed.  K looked at me and said "It's all yours honey.  I'm washing my hands of it."  Oh Good!  I love a good project!

So first thing Monday, I dragged the kids to Home Depot.  I let Max raid the paint card samples and he and Clara were happy campers.  I picked out a million samples to bring home... all in the blue family.  But!  As I was going to the checkout, I walked past the bathroom aisle, and like a light bulb had gone on in my brain, I realized that our faucet was SILVER!  Oh the horror.  All the other hardware was a lovely brushed copper.  So I picked up a new, and very hip, faucet for our sink.  At this point I was being very thankful that K loves me and that even though he's going to give birth to a ten ton brick of crap when I tell him he's installing a new sink, I paused to be thankful that I can always withhold sex until he does. 

On the way home from the store I called him and told him my deeds.  He was surprisingly OK with it, but I think the Senator my have been in the room.  Because he was all, "New faucet?  That'll be a breeze.  I had noticed that the metal friction, uh, washers, were uh, getting stripped and, yeah.  Good idea hon."  Huh?  At least he was cool.

Once home I quickly picked my paint color - Shale Blue from Ralph Lauren.  K got home pretty late, so his part of this surprise renovation was approved for weekend completion by me, the Project Manager.

So I bet you can guess what we did this morning?  Yep.  Went and bought the paint and all needed paint sundries.  And I bet you can guess what I did this afternoon (and during Clara's blessed 2 and a half hour nap)?  Yep.  Painted. 

And here I sit, sweaty, splattered, and high on fumes.  It still needs another coat, which will hopefully begin after dinner. 

And guess what idea I had while sitting here?!  A corner shelf to display my seashells!  OH!

How Costco Traumatized Me And Now I Want To Eat My Own Arm

OK, this post has been in draft form since last Friday, you know... the day I'm supposed to post a funny story.  Except I wasn't in a funny mood.  As a matter of fact, being hungry to the point where you consider how many calories your own arm has, can make one rather repugnant.  Repulsive even.  My poor family.  So, how did I get to this sorry state?  Let me explain.

First off, I have to make an analogy.  Here it goes.  Going to Costco on a Saturday is akin to shopping for four leaf clovers on a football field, during the middle of the Superbowl.  You are likely to either a) Get trampled by large angry people, b) Get yelled at by more angry people, c) Waste time in long lines that promise a tidbit sampling of food/and or hotdogs, or d) Get trampled and yelled at while waiting in long food lines for hotdogs.  That my friends, is Costco on a Saturday.

And of course the pleasure of all that yelling and trampling is contingent on if you ever even make it inside Costco.  Because, first you have to run the gauntlet.  The Gauntlet of Pain, Suffering and Destruction.  In other words, you have to brave the parking lot. 

So yes, I do have a story to go along with this.  I'm not quite sure it is funny in the technical definition of the word, but it is definitely a story. 

A couple of Saturdays ago, K and I woke up and thought, Gee, what could we do today that would cause huge amounts of stress?  I know!  Let's go to Costco!  We were hosting a party at our house that evening and were in need of things like pineapples, coconuts, pigs, etc.  I should mention it was a Hawaiian themed party and that damn it, Costco doesn't sell whole pigs.  Just a 80 pound bag of pig tenderloin.  Anyway, we amazingly managed to make our way through the huge massive gas line and fill up the van without any issues.  Except for the mandatory part where I freak out about how much money it costs.  K will hand me the gas receipt, look at his watch, and say "Ok, start freaking.  And....(pause)....... now you're done."  It's a good system we have.

So we make it through Phase One: Fill the Van Up With Gas.  Now on to Phase Two: Park.  It should be noted here that the Costco near our house does not stand alone.  It is connected to a massive outlet mall surrounded by about 30 other strip malls, and it also just so happens to be next to Ikea.  It's like the Nexus of the Universe, really.   

We start driving slowly through the millions of aisles looking for a spot.  We see immediately that there is a lot of parking in the way back.  But I give K endless grief if he doesn't at least try to find a spot up close.  What a burst of pleasure that would be!  But alas, K is right and we start making our way to the back of the lot.  Note that we are driving away from Costco.  We eventually get to a free spot, with many MANY MMMAANNYY more free spots beyond it.  We see a white Lexus sedan signaling and it is unclear to us whether it is for this first spot we see or if it is for the spot one over from it.  Since there were a million spots all around, we figure it isn't a big deal if we take this spot.  For hells sake, there is another one practically next to it.  We start to pull in.  And the Lexus starts to honk.  Not the "beep beep sorry to bug you" warning honk but the "BEEEEEEEP BEEEEP I'm a Jackass" honk.  I kindly shrug my shoulders at the women and kindly point to the spot next to us.  I like to be kind and helpful all the time you know.

Confused?  Here's a diagram.

After the rude honk, K looks at me and says "You have got to be kidding me."  Except he didn't say kidding, because my husband has a really bad potty mouth.  I replied that I would be in total shock if they were actually mad at us.  I mean really?  Can you SEE the diagram?  The diagram says it all!  I could tell that K was going to be in no mood to deal with this woman. 

We get out of the car and she has pulled behind us, blocking us in.  She gets out and starts snapping the air.  Air snapping is not a friendly means of communication by the way.  And then comes the yelling.  We learned that we had stolen her spot.  A spot she had been waiting for.  A spot that apparently promised hope and joy for her and her future generations.  I think I also learned that she (and her car full of 4 other ladies) had just returned from a Maury Povich taping.  You really shouldn't mess with that special "high" you get from discovering your sister, who has become a man through illegal estrogen injections, thinks that you dress like a ho.  I'm a joy stealer I guess.

And in a moment of heroic proportions, K gave that woman a piece of his mind.  I won't go into it, but I was very proud and awestruck.  Next time he opens a can of whoop-tush, I hope he'll be wearing his flight suit.  That would be irresistible times two.  To the tenth power.   

After her tirade, she got back in her car, reversed 10 feet, and pulled into the spot one over from us.  She, and the other 4 ladies in the car get out and continue their mumbling about how horribly rude we were to take their precious little parking space.  And if you haven't noticed, I have kept my mouth shut this entire time.  Shocking!  But just like a wedgie that begs to be picked, I HAD to say something.  So as they walked by us, I tenderly asked them if they managed to walk that extra 10 feet without hurting themselves.  "Are you OK?  Did it hurt when you had to walk that extra 10 feet?  My you're brave!"  I don't know why I feel the need to agitate so, but ahhh, it felt so nice.  And the woman turned to me and said "You know what?!  You just need to let this go and move on!"  I guess we totally ruined her life.

You're wondering by now what this has to do with calorie counting.  I'll explain.  You see, we were at Costco to buy some food for our Haiwaiian Shindig.  But after our incident in the parking lot, K was convinced that we needed to hurry ourselves up so that they wouldn't beat us out and key the car.  Valid concern.  So in our haste I grabbed an over abundance of baked good and cheeses.  Post traumatic stress disorder is a real thing people.  And when party time came around we had enough food to feed the Army of God and Al Roker.  And whereas I love leftovers, I loathe leftovers.  Because when you're home all day you keep sneaking bites. 

Last Monday afternoon, Max, Clara and I sat in a circle on the kitchen floor with a chocolate cake in the middle.  There was only one fork and we took turns passing it around.  Much like a peace pipe... except we weren't smoking.  We were chowing.  And as I sat on the couch later that night snacking on nachos I thought to myself "Self, you're a pig" and I was slightly appalled that my two little kids and I had eaten a chocolate cake earlier that day.  Is that child abuse?  Will they be in regression therapy later in life calling up memories of Costo parking scuffles, post traumatic stress, cake abuse and their mother having to check herself into the Betty Crocker Clinic?  Oh the guilt!

So first thing Tuesday morning I signed up for Weight Watchers online.  They calculated how many "points" I get a day and set me on a plan.  And guess what?  I hate them and their stupid plans because I'm STARVING!  And if I eat one more carrot (zero points) I'm going to go into beta carotene toxic shock and die.

And THAT'S WHY I HAVEN'T BLOGGED!  You got a problem with that? 

      

So Far Today...

Max woke me up this morning to tell me that he found ten dollars downstairs.  I then followed him to the basement thinking: Ohhh! Free money!  At the bottom of the stairs he turned to me and said APRIL FOOLED!  Little scheister.

Then, not 10 minutes later, the phone rang.  I picked up and on the other end was my favorite neighbor (who incidentally I found lounging in our hot tub yesterday afternoon).  "You're not going anywhere today are you?" he asked.  "Ummm, yes we are.  Why?" "Because," he said, "your back right tire is flat.  Do you want me to help you change it now? "

I'm pretty sure I growled into the phone something to the effect of "%$# tires!  We just got that changed!  YES, come help me!"   And then I went ALL the way upstairs, put on some modest clothing, put on shoes, picked up Clara, found the tire warranty, grabbed the cell to call K, and went ALL the way outside to the driveway.  The tire wasn't flat of course.  And when I picked the phone back up all I heard was evil cackling.

Have I always been this dumb?

Papa, Can You Hear Me?

There are only a few things that I can clearly remember about today.  Waking up to Max whispering something about the color of Mario Andretti's wheels.  Feeding and clothing the kids.  Max freaking out about his socks and Clara hurtling banana across the kitchen.  Rushing to swimming and then piano.  And finally whacking my head on the overhead DVD screen in the car while trying to unload the kids.

It's a bit gray and fuzzy from that point on, but I do have a vague recollection of sitting at our piano and singing Yentl with the Care Bears.

And I Never Ate At Taco Time Again. The End.

Do you like Most Embarrassing Moment stories?  Whenever I hear them I'm always skeptical that it really is indeed that person's most humiliating moment.  Especially if it was in grade school.  Because really, a truly embarrassing moment is scarring, painful, and hard to talk about.  Let alone, something to just rattle off.  A REAL TRUE qualifying embarrassing moment takes years of mental strength and fortitude before it can be retold.  Kind of like mine.

And the time has come.

Deep breath, because seriously, this is the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to me.  And sharing it will be cathartic.  Or pathetic.  You decide.

It was freshman year at BYU.  The hope and promise of life twinkled in my eyes and jiggled in my newly acquired freshman fifteen.  It was my youth, a time of learning, a time of growing.  Spring had sprung and summer was just around the corner.  Mt. Timpanogos was green and alive.  The end of the semester had arrived, bringing with it the dreaded final exams.  I had already aced chemistry, psychology, and organ.  Organ gave me a run for my money, but I pulled out some major moves on those foot pedals at the end.  (Seriously, I really did take Organ at BYU.  That was back when I was on the path to righteousness.)  The next step on that path was my Book of Mormon 101 Final.  I had only this final left, and it was going to be a ball-buster, in the religious sense of course.  Words like chiasma, covenant, and liahona floated around in my head as I made my way to the classroom.  And darn-it all, it was an essay test. 

Now an important part to this story lies in what I had done the previous day.  I had eaten at Taco Time.  Not Taco BELL, not Taco BOX, not DEL Taco, but TACO TIME.  T.A.C.O. T.I.M.E.  Home of the Big Juan - a giant stuffed burrito filled with delicious refried pinto beans.    

Back to my Book of Mormon final.  I walked into the classroom and sat on the back row.  The chairs were the fold-up kind with the little wooden desk thingy that pops up and over.  I folded my seat down and popped up my desk, checked for disgusting gum (I was religious, so to speak, about that) and then popped it over.  The teacher, the BYU authority of ancient scripture at the time mind you, passed out the tests.  Silence fell over the classroom and the final began.  You could hear a pin drop.

I started to write vigorously.  I eloquently compared the word of God to the Iron Rod.  I drew a diagram of the tree of life.  I described the sons of Ishmael.  I nailed the questions on chiasmas and word structures in 2nd Nephi.  I was feeling so good at that moment. 

But oh how things can change. 

Because from this moment forward, my life has never been the same.  For in the silence of this holy exam... I, Susannah, BYU Co-Ed... farted.  And it wasn't just a regular little fart.  You see, I felt it coming.  So with all my mighty might, I squeezed my butt shut.  Do not fart, do not fart, do not fart - was all I could think.  And as I concentrated and squeezed, that fart had no where to go except through that teeny tiny tense little opening that I was trying to will shut.  It was like letting the air out of a balloon while pulling the edges out.  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepfffff is what it sounded like.  Loud, high pitched, and drawn out.  In the dead silence of the classroom it rang out like a carillon... for the chiasma of my butt had been opened. 

My mind raced!  My first thought was - Wow, that didn't even really sound like a fart... maybe if I start moving in my chair, people will think the chair was squeaking!  Brilliant!  So I quickly started moving the folding part of my chair up and down with my butt, spastically.  People's heads were turning like chickens in a squall.  But I didn't look up.  I just sat there with a beet red face, looking at the floor and rocking the seat of my chair back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.  Maybe if people thought I was having a seizure they'd have pity on me and forget about the farting.  Well, that didn't help either, because in the process I stirred up some more gas.  And sure enough...   EEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepffffff.  I squeezed my butt again but only managed to move the pitch of the fart up a notch.  Somewhere, a dog howled.  There was nothing I could do because that fart was going nowhere but out.  I was expelling massive quantities of air with a noise never before heard by man.  And I wanted to die.   

By then the gig was up.  Everyone was looking around and it was very obvious that the girl having a seizure in her seat was the one making the noise.  People whispered, gave me looks of pity and disgust.  There was confusion I'm sure... Was that noise really a fart?  Could THAT have been a fart? Surely she must have a bowel obstruction of some kind?  I wonder if she needs to wipe?

I fled the class, throwing my final exam at the teacher (whose mouth was agape) and ran back to my dorm.  I threw myself onto my bed and wept.  The only positive thing from this experience was that at least it was the final exam and I'd never have to see these people again.  That thought alone was basically what kept me from hurdling myself into traffic on the way home.

And so it was done.  I couldn't take the farts back.  Eventually I moved on with my life.  And I never ate at Taco Time again.  The End. 

   

Maybe I Should Turn Down The Povich Because I Don't Think They Teach This At BYU

Max drew a picture of me the other day.  How flattering of him to use me as his subject, I thought.  After the artistic process was complete he presented me with my likeness.  Conversation is as follows: 

"That's a great picture of me Max!  What are those lines in my stomach?"

"Those are your RIBS!"

"What's that circle above my ribs?"

"Your FOOD TUBE!"

"Smart boy."  I silently pat myself on the back for teaching him stuff out of my BYU anatomy book.  "What is below the lines?"

"Your BUTT!"

"Thank you.  That's a nice petite little butt.  What's that below the butt?"

"Your PENIS!"  (with sounds of maniacal laughter)

"Um Max, Mommy's don't have those."

"Well.... THIS one DOES!  Because it's a MOMMY-DADDY!"

In Which I Interview My Husband and Use the Powers of Editing for My Betterment

Why I Look Up To A Wrinkly Old Man Who Sits Around Naked In A Bathrobe

The other day K asked me a somewhat deep question.  At the end of the day, do you feel like you've made a difference in the world?  I was just sitting on the couch watching some quality TV programming - it may have been The Girls Next Door which I admit freely, usually with no shame - but after that question, it kind of ruined the enjoyment I was sharing with Hef as he danced with his girlfriends.  I said no, I didn't change the world today.  And now I feel like a big fat loser who not only doesn't change the world, but chooses to watch 3 bimbo blondes with an old wrinkly man get it on.  OH the shame!

But sometimes a little mindless TV is a good thing.  Especially at the end of a day where I was working my butt off full time, with deadlines, no breaks, reports, stresses, and real life sustaining, if not threatening, situations.  The job is mother.  And it is (prepare for a bit of rhetoric) the hardest job on the planet. 

There is nothing about being a mother that can be taken lightly.  It is a serious job that if screwed up, has severe consequences.  How is that for stress?  And as my first born matures into a 4 year old and my second born matures into a one year old... the responsibilities build.  Even more, I don't EVEN have a degree in mothering!  The most important job in the world doesn't come with 4-6 years of college experience.  There aren't workshops, research, or study groups in how to be a successful mom.  You are just supposed to figure it out on the job.  It will probably be no surprise to those reading this that I own approximately 52 books on the subject of parenting.  I can't bear the thought of not doing it right.  Or even worse, not EVEN knowing that I'm not doing it right.

In addition to lack of a mother degree, the job of mother has no real measure of success.  I don't get a report card at the end of the day that says "A in feeding, C in listening, and a total F in preventing diaper rash."  As each milestone approaches I don't get a Performance Recommendation Form that says "Number One Mother out of 12 Mothers" or "Promote this mother to Lieutenant Mother immediately!"  I don't know how success is measured.  One day I have a perfectly happy little boy and next day he informs me that I bug him and will I please go away.  How's THAT for feedback!

Each stage of childhood is harder than the next.  I've decided that having a newborn is the easiest stage of motherhood.  Why?  Because you only have to worry about 3 basic things.  Eating, sleeping, and pooping.  You don't have to worry about what crumbs are on the floor that will end up in their mouths, or what they are thinking, or who their friends are, or why they refuse to watch any movie except for Cars, or why they write their letters backwards, or why they insist on head butting you in the crotch every time you are talking to someone other than them.   

So, at the end of the day not only do I feel like I haven't changed the world, I feel like I've spent all day running in circles and eventually going head first into a wall.  Then I get the kids in bed, sit down for a moment to think... and continue to be a mother in my thoughts.  Replaying the day, what I've done wrong, how I can do better, make them better, and feel like a success.  So, a little Hef on 3 blonds action REALLY is an escape.  And I'll take it.  Because if anyone's changed the world, it's Mr. Hugh Hefner. 

I Think I May Be Ever So Slightly Disturbed By This

So of every celebrity ever on the history of this earth... I look the most like Fred Savage?  Why.  WHY?!  Well, at least it's not Doogie Howser MD.  I can just hear the pre-pubescent man/boy jokes now.  I think I'm going to go and be depressed. 

The Beast Is Unleashed

I have a secret.  It's called "The Laugh" and it lives deep down inside of me.  The Laugh has only emerged a dozen or so times in my 31 years of life... but it is indeed there.  Waiting for something to call it out.  A loud, chortling, snorting, squealing, complete loss of most bodily functions noise machine.  What provokes the laugh?  That my friend, is a question for the ages.  It could be something simple like seeing someone fall.  Or, it can be something seen on TV.  And most surprisingly, it can emerge over something simple like a poo joke.

The Laugh can scare young children and awaken the dead.  Oh yes, it can.  And even worse, it makes me feel like I've been run over by a truck once it is unleashed.  Ah yes, the unleashing.  Once it's out I no longer have control... nor can I be held responsible for any damages.  May you never hear The Laugh lest you think I've been possessed by a spastic deranged, even crazed! spirit. 

But alas, the other night it was unleashed.  Before I tell you why... I'll list a few other times the creature has been stirred.

• At my mother's 40th surprise birthday party... when my sister fell down the stairs in front of 50 people... holding two gallons of ice cream.  Even as I'm typing this, The Laugh is stirring.
• When Natalie threw a coconut at Tootie.
• When my friend Kirt hung a pine tree air freshener from his ear on the PRIDE bus.
• When my high school boy friend farted a perfect D Flat.
• That one time when K was holding a bottle of Pert and tripped on the door frame and fell SPLAT! into our room... launching the shampoo.  Something about seeing that shampoo fly through the air...
• That one time when K reset the trip odometer in the car, while driving, while turning a corner, while the wheel was completely rotated... thus completely entangling his hand and almost crashing into a pole while simultaneously spraining his wrist.
• When my loving innocent son walked up to me, stood in silence for a few seconds, then said: "Is YOUR name Bickis?" 

And now for the most recent incident...

Blades of Glory... the first pair dancing competition.  THAT IS THE FUNNIEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN.  The Laugh came forth and I totally needed the Depends.